


Silence is the Loudest Parting Word

by alexandermylove



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Flashbacks, Gen, Memory Loss, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky if you squint, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, am i doing this tag thing right??, slight reference to torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexandermylove/pseuds/alexandermylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"His other arm twitched with anticipation, ready to deliver that final blow, but it wouldn't make that final movement that would drive into the man's flesh and crush and break and kill- it wouldn't move. He couldn't get it to move. He didn't want it to move." Post TWS. How the Winter Soldier grew from being 'Hydra's fist' to something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silence is the Loudest Parting Word

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm not sure if I'm just going to keep this as a oneshot or not. It depends on what kind of reaction I get. 
> 
> The title comes from the song Amen Omen by Ben Harper. 
> 
> Ummm...I don't speak any other language than English so any translations that are wrong/weird blame on google translate. 
> 
> I think that's all I have to say so- I hope y'all like this:

There was a dull pain in the asset's head and a not so dull pain in his arm. It would soon come to pass on it's own but he knew he could quicken the healing process if he just took the time to tend to it. The thing was that his legs didn't seem to want to stop moving.

They just kept going forward, forever heading toward a sunset that he knew he would never reach but clearly his legs hadn't gotten the memo. They kept moving forever forward as if they would find a way to walk off the edge of the earth and continue to walk even didn't want to stop and he had to admit there was no reason to stop.

He racked his brain trying to remember an order, a mission, another action that he had to do to give the world a 'push' in the right direction but he came up blank.

He could remember a tall man with blond hair and blue eyes. They had fought, gone head to head, toe to toe, and matched each other blow for blow. The asset could not remember another time when he had not bested his opponent. There had been times in the past with lots of blood and screaming and begging for mercy, and other times when his target had been completely oblivious to what was about to happen to them.

But this- the man had talked to him, called the asset his 'friend' and refused to fight him in the end.

In the moment, it did not matter to the asset that the man had been standing still, looking like he had no malicious intent or that he had almost looked familiar.

His target was wide open and he had a mission to accomplish.

So he attacked.

His flesh arm wasn't an option but it didn't matter, his other arm was more effective anyway. He had hit

Once

Twice

Three times

and kept hitting until he got to six

His target was beneath him.

His target's face was broken, and bloodied, and he was so close to finishing it, so close to completing his mission and-

"Then finish it, because I'm with you 'till the end of the line."

His target was beneath him and the asset was so, so close to finishing him off.

His other arm twitched with anticipation, ready to deliver that final blow, but it wouldn't make that final movement that would drive into the man's flesh and crush and break and kill- it wouldn't move.

He couldn't get it to move.

He didn't want it to move.

Because his target was beneath him and up so close even though one of his eyes were swollen shut and his hair was mangled and bloody the asset could almost remember. Almost see at the edge of his mind a thought that was slippery and intangible and the more he tried to reach for it, the less of it he could see but it was there and the asset could almost remember a time when the man beneath him had looked much more healthy and alive and- smaller? So skinny that one could see the bones beneath his skin instead of all the bulging muscle that was currently beneath the asset's hands.

He looked down at the man and the man looked back at him and suddenly- he was gone.

The helicarrier was hit, walls breaking apart, plunging into the Potomac and taking the man with them. The man was falling

down

down

down

And he could still see those blue eyes looking back at him.

They burned up his whole being until he felt like he had been cleansed of everything, every act, every word, every time the asset had even looked at someone, disappearing until the only thing that was left was one word.

One name:

_Steve_

He just fell until even the asset's eyes couldn't see him anymore. And in one moment, the asset was being self preservative, holding onto the ship and the next, he was falling too but not because of the same reason the blond man was.

Because he had let got.

He was filled with a desire to protect, a desire so strong it was like a mission that had been programmed into him and there was no other option but to take the plunge.

The asset's body cut through the water easily. His eyes adjusted to the environment quickly and his body set to swimming. His brain didn't register the pain in his shoulder, the thing taking top priority being Steve and the fact that he was somewhere in this water and that he needed to be protected at all costs.

The asset's eyes finally spotted red and white and blue and his other hand was reaching, grabbing onto the uniform and he was swimming up, and up, and up, until his lungs burned when they finally came into contact with oxygen.

They reached a point where the asset's feet could touch the ground, the water only coming up to his waist, and then his thighs, his knees, calves, and finally-dry land.

He dragged the still body behind him with his other hand until he knew that the man- Steve- would be safe and have no more chances of falling back into the water.

His flesh arm burned- burned as if he had stuck it into a flame and Steve- his friend? was bruised and broken and unconscious. Completely prone and vulnerable beneath him.

His original mission reared up suddenly, bright and demanding to be completed before sputtering out and dying again. But if he didn't complete his mission then what else was there?

He did the only thing he could do: He walked away.

Leaving his mission unattended to in the sand.

* * *

Now the asset walks as if he will never stop.

His legs continue to move left, right, left, right, left- the asset's body shudders. Pain working it's way through him- nothing that he has never experienced before and definitely not the worst thing he has ever felt but it is still unpleasant.

He walks toward a tree and when his palms hit bark, his legs finally stop moving. He turns around, leans against it and lets his body slide down it until he is curled up at it's base.

The asset finally takes the time to notice his surroundings. It is dark, and he is in a forest of some sort, he is surrounded by trees and when he looks up he can catch a glimpse of the moon through all the leaves. All around him the forest is filled by the symphony that is animals at night.

The asset is exhausted. He did not realize this until he finally stopped moving. Now his limbs just feel heavy and pained and useless.

He allows his head to rest against the trunk and before he knows it, darkness is consuming him. It starts at the edge of his consciousness and then suddenly attacks, swallowing him whole with what seems like no hope for escape.

* * *

The asset doesn't remember ever having dreamed before but he dreams now. In his dream all is cold. It is the kind of cold that makes him think his skin is turning blue and icicles are forming in his hair.

He dreams of falling. The man- Steve- his friend- his best friend- he is there. But this time it wasn't him to fall first.

It was the asset.

Only he wasn't the asset then was he? He was different then, he can feel it but he doesn't know why or how.

He sees, feels, hears himself fall off of a train. His limbs flail around in the cold air and his throat aches from screaming but it doesn't stop the falling. The falling that has him feeling scared- terrified in every fiber of his being because what will happen when he reaches the bottom?

How can he possibly survive this fall?

He feels the ground approaching faster and faster, coming closer and closer until he lands, his left arm hitting the ground first-with a sickening crunch- before the rest of his body follows.

He screams again and again and again.

The pain is almost unbelievable. He can't feel the fingers in his left hand or even the arm itself but everywhere else- everywhere else would feel like he was being lit on fire if only he wasn't so damn cold.

Snow falls around him and unto him probably even gets inside of him, molding to his shape like a blanket. He hates this, he hates this pain and wishes for death. Every pained breath is a loss because it marks that he is still alive against all odds. He wishes, he hopes, he prays for death.

A death that never comes.

The asset wakes up shivering. His whole body shakes with the memory of the dream and he feels like he will never be warm again. He can feel a never ending winter settling into his bones. Ice working it's way through his blood and freezing him to his spot on the ground.

He knows it's all in his head. He knows, he knows,  _he knows_  but that doesn't stop the cold. That doesn't stop the snow from crushing his bones and burying him alive.

The asset tries to stand. He wobbles and falls to his knees but then he uses the tree as support and pulls himself up with the bark and he is on his feet. He takes a tiny step to try to get rid of the frostbite in his legs. His skin is still freezing and he's still in pain but he knows he can walk. He takes another small step and then another and another and another until he is moving again. Until he is out of the forest. Until he no longer knows where he is.

And he is here-wherever here  _is_ \- but he is also somewhere else.

It is snowing.

The asset is so sick of snow. So sick of the white nothingness. So sick of the cold.

This new memory took place a long time after his fall but he can tell that this wasn't very recent either. The asset is walking through the snow. He holds his flesh arm close to his body.

It burns yet is numb because of the gunshot wound that he had suffered. It was nothing serious and couldn't really be compared to what had he had done to his target but he also did not want to lose the arm.

At the moment he could not remember how he had lost his left one- his memory did not seem to go back much farther than receiving and completing his mission but the asset did not mind. He did not question his handlers.

A single drop of blood trailed down his fingers and landed onto the perfectly white and pure snow, coloring it bright and vibrant red. He ends up stepping on it in passing.

And then only a few hours later he was in the chair. Strapped down and restrained. He knew there was no point in fighting against them.

He would never be able to free himself.

_статус Миссия?_  A voice asks.

But the asset doesn't understand at first. His head is feeling dizzy from the blood loss and all of the sounds jumble together and don't make any sense. He knows that the healing process would go by faster if these handlers would give him some food and water. But he also knows that they are not planning to.

_статус Миссия._  The voice commands.

He understands this time but he is slow to respond. He opens his mouth to reply but he only manages to make them twitch a bit.

He sees it coming but he isn't able to react fast enough and then his cheek is stinging and his eyes roll back in his head for a moment as he starts to feel even more lightheaded.

_полная Миссия._  He finally answers.

_Xорошо._  The voice is cold.

* * *

_Missionsbericht?_

It is a different language, a different group of handlers, and a different time but their intent is still the same.

The missions he receives from them are the same as the ones he got in the past.

He still gets treated the same way here as all of the other places he's been to.

They still have the chair and the dreaded cage filled with ice to put him in when they no longer need him.

_Mission erfüllt._

* * *

_Statut de la mission?_

They want him to reshape the world. They tell him what he needs to do and he does.

There is no room in his head to question orders. There is no room for anything that  _isn't_  an order or a mission and what he needs to do to complete it.

_Mission complète._

* * *

_¿Estado de la misión?_

He is nothing more than Hydra's fist to them. His handlers don't think of him as being human.

_Completa misión._

But maybe they are right.

* * *

_Mission status?_

He has been asked this question so many times that he no longer has to think about the answer. His mouth automatically opens and the words flow out:

_Mission complete._

* * *

The asset dreams again. This time it is of a name:

_Bucky._

It was the name that Steve had called him multiple times when they were fighting. But the asset knows that it was not just then. The name sounds so familiar. He has heard it. He knows it.

Yet he does not.

He keeps hearing it. Over and over again. It bangs around on the inside walls of his head. It almost physically hurts to hear it but he doesn't mind much- his whole existence revolves around pain, what is a bit more to him?

_Bucky._

He hears the way Steve says it. In multiple different tones from happiness, to exasperation, to sadness, to screaming it out in complete horror as he falls.

_Bucky._

He hears the way it sounds being moaned out by a female voice.

_Bucky._

The voice is feminine again but this time it is stern, scolding.

_Bucky._

The word works its way beneath his ribs and pierces his heart.

_Bucky._

It is the only word that he can process in his extremely muddled brain.

_Bucky._

_Bucky,_

_Bucky._

He can't escape from the word. It feels like it is choking him, filling up his throat and cutting off all of his air supply until he grows lightheaded and passes out.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

He hears the sound of his own voice. He doesn't know what to make of it. He doesn't remember saying it.

_Bucky._

Could it be-

_Bucky?_

Could it be that it belongs to-

him?

* * *

Hydra did this to him. Hydra took him and hurt him and erased him, made him something different. He used to be someone different. He used to look different, and act different, and be different.

He wasn't always the asset, he knows that much, but he doesn't know who he used to be instead. He doesn't know how old he is, or his birthday, or even where he came from.

All he remembers is a cell filled with ice, a chair, and pain, so much pain that fills him up and consumes him until there is no him- until there is nothing but blackness and electricity.

He doesn't remember his former voice, he doesn't remember his former face, he doesn't remember a time when his hair didn't fall into his face or when he had two flesh hands. A time when the place his other arm connected to his skin wasn't always red and inflamed and a constant dull pain.

There was always so much pain. Was there ever a time where there was no pain? Was there ever a time- before he was the asset-before the cold- before the fall- where there wasn't pain?

Where- it had been so long that he had forgotten the word- it was not sadness- it was the opposite of hurt- it was…

Happiness

Was he ever happy?

Did he enjoy his old life while he could?

* * *

The asset eventually reaches the outskirts of a city. He knows he is filthy and bloody, his other arm fully exposed and glistening in the setting sun and he will definitely attract attention.

He has to get new clothes or people will talk and people talking will lead to Hydra finding him again.

The asset is good at not being seen when he doesn't want to be. He scopes out the outskirts of the city, catalogs in his mind where everything is. The places where the people dress the best and he would stick out like drops of blood in fresh snow, and places where the people look seedier and he would have an easier time blending in among them.

Then he waited until the sun had gone down and the moon risen before he ventured out.

He was quick and efficient- he had noticed an old woman hanging up clothes on a line in her backyard earlier so that was where he went first. He ran into her backyard, grabbed pants, shirt and jacket and then escaped, all in under a minute.

He then made his way to a homeless shelter- which was easy enough to get into.

He made his way to the bathroom, stripped out of his grimy clothes and turned on the shower. He had originally planned to only stay in there for five minutes at most but he stepped in- and it was warm.

The water was so warm and it felt so good against his cold skin. He stood directly under the spray and let it surround his whole body.

He got soap and lathered it into his skin, his hair, the place where his other arm attached to his flesh, the dirt and grime and blood moving down the drain.

He almost felt like he was trying to wash away the asset but he knew- no matter how many bars of soap he went through or how long he stood under the magnificently warm water that it would never be possible.

* * *

It feels like he has been heading towards this the whole time. He's not sure how he knew how to get here. He can't explain the feeling that settled in his bones when he finally reached it-like this was where he needed to be- this was the end to what had begun decades ago.

He was in front of the Smithsonian.

The museum was packed. Not exactly at the point of being filled to the brink but getting there.

The asset feels claustrophobic. He is uncomfortable being around so many people, he can't remember a time since he became the asset when he felt this way. He knows that there were times when he had to blend into crowds, that he weaved through people like nothing, completely unaffected by everything but his target. But this foreign feeling- this uncomfort- it made him feel more human, actually capable of experiencing emotions rather than Hydra's unthinkable killing machine.

He doesn't know what he is looking for but he knows that it is here. He will know it when he sees it and he has yet to see it.

Until he does.

He sees his face. Or at least what used to be his face.

He sees it painted on a gigantic mural. On screens that play back video of him over and over again. There he is laughing, and there he is marching, or in the back of a truck.

And Steve is in all of them. It seems that Steve has always been there.

And then there is a big glass structure. It is titled "A Fallen Comrade". His face is on it along with some information about who he used to be.

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

Best Friend of Captain America.

The only Howling Commando to die during combat.

Die.

1917-1944.

If only he had died in 1944.

The as-James-Bucky? slips out of the museum unseen and unnoticed.

* * *

The features were the same.

There were still glimpses of the old Bucky Barnes to be found in him. Hidden behind all the pain and lies and corruption maybe- just maybe he could be found again.

While leaving the museum he had lifted a man's wallet from his pocket in passing and used the money to buy some shaving cream and a razor. Now, he took the shaving cream and spread it over his cheeks and his jaw and part way down his neck. Then he took the razor.

The Winter Soldier was trained on how to wield a blade no matter how big or small. He could kill a man with the tiny blades of this razor. He could kill a man with less actually.

He had the skill and the training, he had a weapon, but he couldn't figure out how to kill the asset, how to kill the 'Winter Soldier'.

He knew that it wouldn't be as simple as severing the jugular in half, or piercing the heart, or snapping the neck, or a stab to the stomach.

It was deeper than that.

The Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes were wrapped up together, intertwined, Siamese twins that could never be separated. Bucky couldn't bleed without the soldier shedding blood too. The Winter Soldier couldn't be hurt without Bucky also screaming out in pain.

He lifts his flesh arm- the one that used to be broken- and uses it to guide the razor over his skin until the cream is gone and he rinses off the excess.

He looks into the mirror again and both are there.

The smooth shaven cheeks of Bucky and the long hair of the soldier.

He is both.

He will always be both.

He will never get rid of one or the other.

His pressure sensors alert his brain that there is something under his other hand and he hears a slight crunch. He looks down to see his hand gripping onto the sink and he is quick to remove his fingers.

The imprint of the other hand is left behind.

* * *

The man who is not fully the winter soldier nor Bucky Barnes sleeps in a bed that night. It is soft- too soft- and warm-but not warm enough.

Warm blankets on cold skin trying to thaw ice that has been there for too long. He shivers and tries to shake off the ice but it follows him into his dreams.

And for the first time in a long time there isn't pain, there isn't falling, there isn't being forced into a small space and losing months or even years of his life.

In the dream he is in the middle of a snow covered street, it is New York- the place he grew up, he remembers that now- and he is surrounded by children. He realizes that he himself is also a child.

It is snowing. Not the terrible, numbing, painful coldness that threatens to swallow him whole as he lies paralyzed after a fall. It is cold yes, but it fills him with excitement and happiness especially surrounded by all these kids that are his friends.

They are yelling and smiling and throwing snowballs at each other. Bucky himself gets hit in the back of the head and he finds himself laughing, running, making snowballs, and throwing them with spot on accuracy- even back then. It goes on for quite some time, the snowball fight in the middle of the day and it is almost perfect.

Perfect except for the fact that someone was missing.

Someone who was way more important than all of these people around him combined.

His best friend.

Steve.

* * *

The man that is perpetually stuck between two identities knows that he should probably feel bad about swiping wallets from people's pockets but he does not.

He uses the money to buy a clean pair of pants, a long sleeve shirt and two sweaters. He is still not over how good it feels to be warm so he puts on all of them along with the shirt and jacket and gloves and hat that he already has.

He probably looks ridiculous but he can't find it in himself to care.

He has no where to go, he has no orders, he has no mission. He wanders around, he tries to blend in, tries to act like a normal person who wasn't born at he beginning of the twentieth century or someone who has never had his wiped, or frozen for the majority of his life, never killed someone. He walks to the park and sits under the sun for hours. And for the first time in years- in decades- he begins to thaw.

* * *

His memories start to come back faster and more frequently:

"How was it?" It was his voice. He was aware of speaking and walking up a flight of stairs.

"It was okay, she's next to dad." That was Steve.

His friend looked sad and Bucky didn't have to put in a lot of effort to remember why.

That was the day that Steve's mother had been buried.

"I was gonna ask-" He started in the memory just to be cut off.

"I know what you're going to say, Buck it's just-"

"We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids. It'll be fun- all you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash. Come on-" He urged his friend.

"Thank you Buck. But I can get by on my own." Steve insisted back.

"The thing is...you don't have to. I'm with you till the end of the line, pal."

_I'm with you till the end of the line._

Those nine simple words bang around in his head.

Over and over again.

_I'm with you till the end of the line._

He could feel the conviction that he had said those nine words with.

If only they had proven to be true.

* * *

Even though they were grown men and they were supposed to not be interested in this kind of stuff anymore- neither of them seemed to care.

Just like Bucky had suggested- he and Steve had pulled out all of the couch cushions and gathered all the extra pillows and blankets that they could find from Bucky's bed and hall closet and set up a fort in the living room.

They had been in there for the last couple of hours just talking and joking and laughing. Steve had been a bit closed off in the beginning but Bucky managed to get him out of his funk soon enough.

Bucky's younger sisters had even wanted to join in and when they were there things had gotten a bit wild- with tickle fights, pillow fights, almost hysterical sounding laughter, smiles so wide they hurt their faces, and happy tears running down their cheeks.

His siblings had since gone to bed but he and Steve were still up. They were tangled up in blankets and it was quiet. It was the comfortable silence that came from knowing someone for the majority of your life and knowing that they would continue to be there until the end.

Bucky was starting to nod off, eyes growing heavy and body becoming lax, he was just about to fall asleep when he heard a small voice, barely louder than a whisper but it was enough to wake him from his stupor.

"Thank you for this, Buck. I don't know what I would do without you."

Bucky moved closer to his best friend, their legs brushed against each other and his head was so close to Steve's that if he moved any closer they would be sharing the same pillow.

"And you'll never have to find out." He whispered back. He ran his hand through the golden strands of Steve's hair once before ruffling it.

"Now go to sleep, punk."

Steve smiled sleepily. "Goodnight, jerk."

The man now remembers how he had woken up to discover that he and Steve had shifted closer to each other in their sleep and the blond's head was pressed to his chest.

Yet, in the present he wakes up to see that there is no fort, no tangle of blankets, no feeling of Steve's breath warm on his chest. He is alone.

His chest aches with a feeling of loss.

* * *

He is young- his memory doesn't provide him with the exact age but he guesses no more than five or six- when his family had just moved to New York.

It was summer so school hadn't started yet and his mother had sent he and his older sister Becky to the park that was just a block away from their house.

The first thing they had went to was the swings but he couldn't get his to work- not the way Becky's was. He couldn't figure out how she was getting so high up and he couldn't.

He had made a fuss, demanded that she help him and she did. She pushed him over and over again until he was flying, soaring through the air. And then Becky got back onto her swing and they were flying together.

Without Becky to push, the swing slowly started to go loose altitude again until he was back on the ground but he didn't mind- he had had enough flying for one day.

He got off and saw that it was no longer just him and Becky at the swings, there was now a boy who looked about his age. He was really small with blond hair and big blue eyes. He was also practically hiding behind one of the supporting bars for the swings.

Their eyes met and Bucky's face had split into a huge smile.

"Hi!" He exclaimed happily, glad to have a chance to speak to someone his age and possibly make a new friend.

The blond boy's eyes widened slightly in surprise or maybe fear but he stuttered out a, "H-hi." Bucky was not easily fazed though.

"What's your name?" The brunette boy continued.

"Steve. What's yours?"

Bucky's brow furrowed slightly, "That's no way to introduce yourself- from behind that pole- you're supposed to come out and shake my hand."

Bucky held out his right hand, then his left, and shook them up and down once to prove his point. He then held out his right hand to Steve and waited for him to take it. The blond hesitantly came out from behind the pole to place a shaky hand in Bucky's and they shook.

"That's much better, Steve. I'm Bucky by the way."

Steve tilts his head to the side in confusion. "What kind of name is Bucky?" He didn't sound as scared any more, though he was still hesitant.

"Well, my full name is 'James Buchanan Barnes' but no one calls me that 'cept my mama when she gets angry."

Steve laughed at that and he started to relax more. "You were going so high-" He gestured to the swings behind them. "Weren't you afraid?"

"Course not. It's fun! You wanna try? I'll push you!"

Steve's eyes widened even bigger if that was even possible.

"Really?"

"Yeah! Get on!" He gestured to the swings behind them.

They had swung for a whole hour before Steve's mama had finally come up to them and told Steve that it was time to go.

That was the summer that they became best friends and by the time school started, they were inseparable.

In a park in the middle of Washington D.C. the man who is starting to put the Winter Soldier in his past but is not yet Bucky Barnes sits on a swing.

His legs are long enough to touch the ground and he knows the basic mechanics of how it works now but he just sits there. Sits there for hours on end. He isn't empty, he isn't fully himself- whoever he is- but he is warmer, he is getting better, he can move on with his life.

* * *

The building was not exactly familiar but he knew enough. He had been there briefly for a mission. It hadn't been very elaborate, to water it down, it was nothing more than a hit and run- or at least it was supposed to be. Hitting his target had been easy enough but while trying to escape he had almost been apprehended.

Back then, he hadn't realized the man who had chased him across rooftops was the person who at one point in his life had also been his best friend. Back then he was Hydra's mindless, killing machine but now...he was different.

The lock on the front door had been easy enough to pick and it hadn't taken him very long to figure out which apartment he was looking for but for some reason the walk up the stairs seemed to take lifetimes.

He must have relived his whole old life again by the time it took him to get to the door. School years and first kisses and trick or treating and holding hands and fighting and having sex with girls and he is knocking- knocking on that door and-

It opens.

And there is Steve.

He looks different yet exactly the same as the way he had looked in memories. There was his golden-blond strands of hair, and there was his bright blue eyes displaying his shock at seeing the sight in front of him.

"Bucky?"

And there was his voice, deep and rich and smooth but also incredulous as if he just couldn't believe what was right in front of his face.

Bucky finds himself nodding as if his life depends on it.

He smiles- or at least tries to, the muscles feel stiff and awkward from so many years of no use but he thinks, he hopes, that Steve can help him fix that.

That they can figure this out

Together

"Yeah," He finally answers, "It's me."


End file.
